


What Pleases Us

by RazMahDaz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst to Fluff, Geralt Has An Anxiety Attack, Geralt apologizes poorly, Geraskier, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier has an anxiety attack, Jaskier is like 47 and is still a bonified Twink, M/M, Professor Jaskier, Repressed Emotions, Valdo Marx makes an appearance, Yearning, post ep 6, silver fox jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazMahDaz/pseuds/RazMahDaz
Summary: Geralt had long accepted that he'd never see his bard again. Moved passed it and closed that chapter once and for all, even if it ended poorly. Though, as the hand Destiny would find it, he may be opening that book in the giant library of his life again, and far quicker than he'd like.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 229





	1. Chapter 1

Rain pattered across the wooden walls and dusted windows of the large tavern, causing a small rumble to decorate the background of dull conversations and practiced lute strums. The floor was lightly packed with towns folk and farmers that were searching for anything between entertainment, company, or simply warmth from the early spring shower that drowned the tiny town with mud. No one spoke louder than a hush, however. Nothing more was needed. The evening was quiet and stalking into the building for everyone to welcome. Mostly everyone.

In the back corner, just next to warm hearth, three new figures had hogged the seats all to themselves. These out-of-towners were only a night ago being heckled and threatened, their presence feared and unwanted. But after the fall of a great wyvern that had been tormenting the local cattle and wounding the best of their hunters, the townsfolk decided that they never wanted the party to leave. The least they could do as recompence was offer the warmest place in the bar, a good meal, and a room. With a sizable pouch of coin for their efforts, of course. However, these sacrifices hadn’t seemed to ease the group. The locals assumed this was just the life of A Witcher. Well, the life of two Witchers and a Sorceress.

Yennefer had been pouring over her book since they arrived, borrowing as many as she was allowed from the local library. Library was more of a title, because even though the building was meant for lending and collecting books, the collection was comparable to the shelf of a small child. There had only been one tome that she’d deemed useful, but as she reached the halfway point, it was obvious that it was nothing more than that of a small child’s story book. Geralt had occupied himself with teaching a grown Cirilla how to play, and cheat, at Gwent. The two were sore and tired, mostly staying active for Yennefer’s sake. They started their third game before a low groan bellowed from the pitch-clad sorceress, their eyes simultaneously meeting the disappointed face of Yennefer before she slammed the book close and sank her head into folded arms.

“No luck?” Cirilla asked. Her eyes drifted a second to sneak a glance at Geralt’s hand, but he curled the cards towards his chest. She watched his lip tweak into a grin and she rolled her eyes and planted them back on Yen.

“None…” a muffled whine crept out of folded arms. She picked her head up just enough to look at her two companions. “I’ve visited smut shops with wider arrays of historical documentations than these libraries.” Cirilla smiled and stifled a laugh. Geralt’s hand just came out and landed on the woman’s elbow, his thumb soothing over her bone in a show of Sympathy.

They’ve been at this venture for weeks. A legend had resurfaced as of late, one of curses ailing noble blood that would eventually weed out the family tree of said noble, and call upon a dreaded plague to spread across the kingdom, so that no one would utter the family’s name again. The trio had been employed by a descendent of said family, but there wasn’t nearly enough evidence behind the tall tale he’d spun them. They originally thought him paranoid, but as they walked through the city’s street, sick men coughed up parts of their very lungs and tongues. Once they arrived, the noble’s father had already fallen to illness. They were asked to find a cure for this sickness, or a way to break the curse entirely.

They’ve been led in many directions; Councils of healers, Elders that held stories of old, even Elves had been a lead (seeing as they are older than the lands themselves), but very few of these sources had actually developed into answers. The only truth they’ve received is that the curse was Real, and the words were lost long ago. So, they were stuck, browsing libraries and asking historian after historian for anything close to curses told centuries ago. 

“You should rest,” Geralt reassured as Yennefer picked herself up off the dark oak table. 

“I will,” she replied, rubbing her eyes. “I just wish we had more resources. I feel we’re on the right path, but now we’re walking in the dark without a torch.” She shoved the book into her satchel and promised herself to return it in the morning.

“Well, where’s the biggest library? Or the oldest?” Cirilla asked. Her cards had fallen flat on the table for all to see, herself uninterested in the game now.

‘Shame’ Geralt thought. ‘She would’ve won.’ 

“Don’t your friends have large collections of books?” He asked Yennefer as she took the cards into hand and began shuffling them. The younger man who had been playing the lute had picked up pace a bit, trying to keep a crowd. It was hauntingly familiar to his keen ears. He continued his thought. “You’d think people who lived forever would document these sorts of things.”

“They do,” the Witch responded in a tired tone. “But by the time we search through those piles of scrolls and journals, the Kingdom would be nothing but a feast for ravens. They do keep poor care of the place. It wouldn’t surprise me if the library there has been overtaken by mold at this point.”

“Alright, well. Where’s the next biggest library that isn’t in ruin?” Cirilla asked. 

Geralt thought he had the answer, the name on the very tip of his tongue, but his head was bombarded by that damn lute and the words that now trailed the notes. It was an incantation that echoed through to the very base of the Witcher’s skull. But it was wrong, the words not belonging to the proper voice. He peered over to the source of that forbidden ballad, glaring at its origin. 

“They came after me, with masterful deceit. Broke down my lute and they kicked in my teeth! While the devil’s horn minced our tender meat, so cried the Witcher, he can’t be bleat~!”

The person who uttered these lyrics was shorter than the writer, thinner set, and topped with a mass of orange curls. He failed in comparison to the author. But that isn’t what made Geralt feel so wrong about the song, no, it’s the fact that the words have long since died out since before this bard was born. So where had he heard them? The Witcher pushed himself up from his chair and walked over, blocking out the questions his group had protested. He landed only a few feet behind the singer, leaning against a post and glaring at him from behind.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, O’valley of plenty, O’valley of plenty, oh oooh oh~!”

The chorus continued, but began to peeter out as the bard’s eyes met a dispersing audience. Some of the town's folk leaned back, a sense of fear crept across some faces as they stared at the chunk of muscle that stood behind the singer. The bard’s face contorted to one of confusion, but just as his brow furrowed, one of the farmers pulled out a single crown and flicked it over his head. He followed its arche and watched as it was caught by Geralt, whose eyes were locked with the back of his head. He clutched his lute close and preyed to powers above him that he hadn’t offended the White Wolf before him. Geralt could hear the panicked gulp in the other’s throat.

“Please don’t end me, I’ll give you all the coin in my pouch! It was all in good fun,” the bard stuttered and spat as he begged for his very life in an uncouth way. His pleadings were cut short as Geralt asked one simple question.

“Where did you hear that song?”

The bard’s shoulder’s tensed further and that look of dread only deepened. “W-what?”

“It’s a simple question,” Geralt hummed. “Where did you learn that song?”

“Well,” The bard began, his voice shaking. “Where else do you learn a decades old ballad if not from the writer himself?” At that, Geralt almost scoffed. It was impossible that this man had seen Jaskier after decades of himself not hearing so much as a peep from him after all these years.

“You’re barely a child, how could you have heard it from Jaskier?” Geralt accused the young man of lying to his face. Geralt wondered if Yennefer had paid this fool to play a trick on him.

“I was in Professor Pankratz’s class for two years,” he replied. “Just graduated, actually. And as he always does when all of his students pass his final exam, he tells them tales of his travels with The White Wolf…” his eyes travel up and down Geralt, putting the pieces together. He lit up as if he were struck by Lightning. “You...You’re The White Wolf! You’re The Geralt Of Rivia!”

Geralt thought he could hear the bard speak, questions and requests for details falling on blood-rushed ears. His heart tensed and his head reeled at the very thought. He, at first, wanted to know why he was being struck with such feelings. Why should he be feeling as if he’s about to faint at the information that Jaskier is alive and flourishing. Why does he feel so relieved but so...wracked with guilt. Secondly, he decided that he wanted to know more. His voice sliced through the barrage of questions.

“Where is he?”

“Professor Pankratz? He’s at Oxenfurt,” the bard answered, acting like this was common knowledge. “Been teaching for 7 years or so now? He’s been there for a long while. I thought you’d know that.” The last bit hurt, but was smoothed over with the name. The very name that had been on the edge of his teeth since Cirilla had asked her last question. 

Before he dared to listen to any more inquiries of details, he handed the bard the crown in his hand and walked back over to his seat. The bard didn’t dare follow to the nest of monster slayers, so Geralt was freed from the chains of words and useless questions. Yennefer and Cirilla looked at him, bewildered with what he had just done. But before they could interrogate him, he gave the answer they needed.

“Oxenfurt has the biggest and best kept library this side of the continent. It’s a university, so our answers may lie there,” he informed. Yennefer contemplated the scheme, her head tilting to one side with approval. “Surely someone could assist us in our research.”

“It’s quite the possibility,” Yennefer concluded. She glanced out the window and into the wet night outside. “I could have us there tomorrow morning. That is, if you wouldn’t mind taking portals, Geralt.” She sneered at him, teasing the man about his distaste for the magic. 

Geralt truly didn’t want to take portals to reach Oxenfurt, but his need to see what became of Jaskier outweighed all his objections.

“Time is of the essence. I think I can make an exception,” Geralt hummed. “Just this once.”

“Wonderful.” Yennefer put her hands together and smiled at her two Witchers. Cirilla seemed to be beaming with curiosity, much like she had when she was a child. “Well, let us get some rest. There will be plenty of walking to do once we get to Oxenfurt. The university itself is the size of a kingdom.”

It was true that they should rest. The day was long and difficult, the last few minutes more so for Geralt. If he was going to survive tomorrow, he needed as much rest as he could allow himself. 

The morning eventually dawned and the clouds hadn’t parted since last evening. The rain had ended sometime in the night, but the muggy air still hung thick around them. Geralt was still tired, sleep not sinking in fully last night. Everytime he closed his eyes, he was haunted by that damned mountain and he was stabbed by his own sharp words. He woke up constantly throughout the night in a cold sweat and a fear soaked mind, and he was expecting the worst to come of today. He spent his morning packing and readying Roach to stay in town while they were away, in the care of the farmer that paid them handsomely for their Wyvern hunt. He distracted himself with brushing her coat, and he lamented his anxieties to her as he usually did.

“You were the brave one yesterday. Didn’t so much as jump when facing down that beast,” he praised, his chest being pushed by the horse’s muzzle. “Lend me some of that. I don’t think I have this in me.” He gifted her with a carrot, she gave a reassuring huff, and Geralt left the barn to join his companions. They should only be gone for a few days. Roach has been in different strangers' care for far longer.

“So what is Oxenfurt like? Have you been there before?” Cirilla asked, prying the witch for details. She herself had never been, mostly because Geralt didn’t have any good reason to return to the place. He only visited when winter was over so that he could retrieve his old companion. After he was left alone, and once Ciri was in his care, he never felt the urge to pass through.

“It’s mostly school grounds and parks, not much of a city by any means. Full of scholars and students and every form of prick in between,” Yennefer answered, a tone of distaste in her words. “I’ve only been a handful of times, but only for banquets of the nobles I was protecting at the time or for small meetings when it was urgent. I’ve never had much of a reason or motivation to go in my own time. I’ve actually never been to the Library itself,” she admitted.

“Sounds pretentious,” Cirilla pondered.

“It’s extremely pretentious,” Geralt butted in once he arrived at their sides. “Thankfully, we won’t have to stay long.” His hand landed on the younger girl's shoulder, mostly for his own comfort.

“You’ve been?” Cirilla seemed shocked at that idea.

“He used to go often,” Yennefer replied for him. He shot her a scowl which only made her smile.

“You Did!?” The younger woman exclaimed which only made Geralt’s eyes roll. He hadn’t told Cirilla about Jaskier often, if at all. He can remember mentioning him in passing, but he didn’t like talking about him in depth. It’s all too possible that Geralt has never even spoken his name. If he never brought up that bard, why would he have brought up Oxenfurt? It wasn’t even that important to know when talking about Jaskier.

“Yes, I did,” Geralt reluctantly spoke. “I had a...friend,” Geralt hesitated. “And when I needed to research for hunts, he’d assist me. That was long ago, long before you were born.” Yennefer offered him a knowing look, and he knew she wanted him to divulge on the subject, but when he didn’t say anything more, she didn’t push him. She even saved him from anymore invasive questions by clapping her hands together suddenly.

“Well, shall we get going? Early birds and all that.” The sorceress flicked her wrists and twirled her hands in a practiced motion. 

Geralt’s stomach twisted with anxiety as he could see the brick paths and tall fortress like buildings that made up Oxenfurt’s scenery. His brow furrowed and he took an incredibly deep breath to help steel his quivering nerves. Yennefer passed through first, and Cirilla followed suit. His shoulders tensed, his mind ran in circles, and he hummed to himself. There wasn’t any going back, no time to rehearse his words. This was happening, whether Geralt was ready or not. He hoped he was. He doubted he was.

His heavy feet carried him through the portal, and the heavy musk was replaced with the smell of wildflowers and sweet summer fragrances, with just a tinge of old book. It smelt like Oxenfurt. It smelt like Jaskier. It made his chest warm and ache all at the same time.

The portal closed behind them, and the trio now stood in the center of a beautiful walkway; carved stone path beneath their feet, a block of townhouses and shops laid to their right, while a large hedge made up the gateways to a courtyard just to their left. The place was full of younger to mid aged humans of all sorts of colors, dispositions and personalities. Some gossip in the streets, talking of their new classes and assignments. Some lay in the courtyard and diligently work on their latest assignments or projects. It seemed wherever Geralt turned his head and focused his hearing, there was a different instrument being practiced upon. They were greeted to a few interested glances as they emerged, but they weren’t held long as the passersby eyed the swords they carried.

Yennefer glanced about, unsure of where she had placed them. She searched for a landmark, but the only thing that was confirmed was that they were near the main campus, as it was just beyond the overgrown hedge. They were still lost, however.

“Geralt,” she asked in a sweet tone. “Do you know where we need to go?”

Geralt had no fucking clue where to go. He hadn’t been here for a long while, and only the Gods could find their way through this maze of a town. It didn’t help that they came in through a portal and not through one of the main gates. He simply looked at Yennefer and shrugged, which didn’t serve as a satisfying answer.

Cirilla watched the pair as they began to squabble. Directions are somehow always the point of arguments for them. Her eyes glanced around, watching the locals walking to and fro, from building to building, from street to street. She noticed how they gave the bickering pair a wide girth, not daring to interrupt their discussion. Cirilla knew that at least one of these students would be able to guide them. She locked her gaze on a random girl, one of dark complexion and curly hair that bounced as she walked. Cirilla swooped to her side and flashed her sweetest smile.

“Greetings! If you’d pardon me, me and my family are in need of guidance,” she said, her hand gesturing to the pair. They hadn’t even noticed she wandered off. Cirilla was met with a gentle face; round and inviting, not in the slightest bit bothered by the interruption. Said face looked back at the two before she giggled, seemingly familiar with the situation. Ciri smiled a bit bashfully before speaking again. “We have business at the library. Can you point us on the right path?”

“Of course!” the girl said. She shifted her books from one arm to the other, and began pointing up. Ciri followed the trail and was led to a large, third story tower that connected to the west chunk of the building. “The library is in the west wing of the building, just beyond the tower. There’s an entrance just down this street and to the left. It’s a big hole in the wall with a grand hall, it’s impossible to miss. Just go where you see the blue banners.”

“Thank you!” Cirilla praised. Her hand dug into her coin purse and pulled out a crown. She offered it to the girl, who took the coin and tucked it into a pocket, before curtseying as a show of gratitude. Cirilla let the girl go on her way, and she rushed back to the annoyed grunts of Geralt and the snark filled words of Yennefer. Her eyes rolled back into her skull before she took Yennefer’s arm in hers and began to tug her in the direction she was shown. Yennefer stuttered in an attempt to protest the action, but Cirilla spoke before the other could form words.

“Blue banners, large open hall, east wing! Come On,” she spat out, pulling the witch behind her. Geralt stifled a laugh as he was saved from Yennefer’s nagging; enjoying the sight of her being flustered and cut off mid argument. 

He quickly picked up pace and trailed the two women through the street before Cirilla turned to the left and through an archway decorated with cerulean, billowing banners that swished gently in the breeze. Sure enough, just as Ciri was told, there was a large open entrance on the side of the dark stone wall. Inside was a well decorated and elaborate main hall, with archways that led down more and more halls. As they walked through, students dipped from hall to hall, all too familiar with the endless mazes that made up the school. Then they arrived in a large echoing room that seemed to be a directory. There was a long desk where one older looking woman sat, perusing closed envelopes and documents, before organizing them into neat piles. Two large staircases sat behind the desk, and the room opened up to similarly huge halls on each side of the trio.

It was impossible to tell where to go from here by instinct. Geralt had felt like he had seen this entrance before, hell, he thinks he’s even seen the attendant when she was younger. But his head was reeling, and his heart was becoming closer to that of a humans, and it was almost nauseating to be here again. It wasn’t too late to change plans, was it? Just go to the library and do what’s needed, then leave. No need to find him, no need to even ask about him. It was probable that Jaskier hadn’t even wanted to see him, so it’d just be best to not intrude. Geralt deemed it best to not cause Jaskier any more problems.

He caught himself dazing and saw Cirilla and Yennefer waiting to talk to the woman at the front desk. Geralt ripped himself from his place on the floor and joined them. Once all three were present, Yennefer waved her hand to get the woman’s attention. She was easily 50, perhaps older. Her hair was going grey at her temples, and a set of thick glasses sat on her button nose. She must have been close to blind or beyond brave because she didn’t so much as flinch when she met the two Witcher’s and Sorceress’ faces.

“How can I help you?” She politely asked.

“We need access to the Library, it’s of urgent business of the Traedon Royal Family,” Yennefer informed. “We’d appreciate some direction.”

The older woman gave them all a knowing look and a small sigh before she adjusted the rims over her spectacles to look over the group thoroughly. Her hands folded on the desk and sat straighter in her seat.

“I understand the urgency. After all, Witcher’s don’t come here often,” she began with a small chuckle. “But sadly, since you aren't students or accompanied by a professor, I can’t give you open access. Our librarian is out sick with hayfever and can’t watch over the study.”

Geralt could feel Yennefer’s shoulders tense, but his own relaxed just a bit. Of course, they needed to research, but the risk had been eliminat-

“I can take a look at the schedules and see what Professor has some free time, however!” She chimed in with a motherly tone. “New semester and all, so the wait may be long. But I’m sure I can find someone to assist you!” 

Fuck.

“Thank you,” Yennefer said with relief. “Thank you, yes of course, we can wait. Take your time.” The woman walked off down one of the halls and disappeared into a converging hallway. The trio were left to their own devices for a moment. And to Geralt’s dismay, he was left with his thoughts.

‘This is still fine,’ he thought to himself. ‘There’s hundreds of professors, the chance of meeting Jaskier is so slim.’ He both wanted to believe that that was the truth but also a lie. Gods, this was so complicated. Jaskier was here, somewhere, and Geralt may never get the chance to see him again for as long as the Bard lives. But why the fuck would Jaskier ever want to face him again? His presence would just hurt the poor human. Geralt had already hurt him enough. His head was running through both options, trying to prep an apology and a stealthy escape plan at the same time. There was a ringing in his ears, and he felt ill, dizzy even thinking about it all. Gods why was he putting so much thought into this? Why was he such a bastard? This feeling is what he deserves-

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder and another took his firmly clenched hand. Geralt was brought back to the present for a moment, the only faces he could see being the concerned looks of Yennefer and Cirilla, holding him. His head turned to the side to avert their gazes. He hated making them worry. The hand that was gripping Ciri’s relaxed in her touch, having to force himself to do so. Yennefer’s free one came forward and brushed away a strand of white before gently landing on his cheek.

“You’re worried about meeting him, aren't you?” Yennefer knew. Of course Yennefer knew.

“You paid off that bard at the tavern, didn’t you? This is one of your tricks,” Geralt claimed. He was lying to himself, and accusing the poor witch. Gods, he was a mess.

Yennefer just gave a tiny smile and ran her thumb over his cheek. “Darling, if I wanted to tease you, I’d have worn four different perfumes and read one of my botany books out loud when we were travelling. I’d like to think destiny is a crueler bitch than I.” Geralt couldn’t help but lean into her tender touch, before letting out a deep sigh that came straight from his soul. 

“You weren’t exactly quiet last night,” Cirilla softly chimed in. “We just didn’t say anything because Yennefer said it was a tough subject. She was worried you’d get like...This.” Her hand squeezed his tighter. Geralt remembered doing this for her when she was but a child. He could see why it was comforting.

“Geralt,” Yennefer began, catching his eyes. “I think this is good. For the both of you. You can’t run away from this until he dies. It isn’t fair to either of you. You came back to me after that mountain, and I forgave you. And I can’t guarantee Jaskier will forgive you, the man holds grudges longer than it takes water to erode stone, but I do know that man adored you. The least you can do is give him a proper farewell.”

Yennefer was right. Of course she was right. Even if Jaskier truly hated him, even if he never could look Geralt in the eyes again, the very least Geralt could offer the man was the proper goodbye he was owed. One that wasn’t so messy; No curses, no insults. A proper end to their friendship.

“Alright,” Geralt whispered. “I can do that.”

“I know you can. We know you can,” Yennefer says with a sweet smile. Both her hands retract from Geralt’s body. As her hand leaves his cheek, Cirilla planted a warm kiss on his cheek. ‘For Luck’ she’d said when she was younger, just before Geralt left on a hunt. 

He relaxed. Not fully, of course. There was still a tight knot in the pit of his stomach, but his breathing became slower, and his ears were filled once again with the light chatter of students.

“We’ll look for him when we’re done,” He promised the group. Geralt promised himself this above all else. 

Footsteps approached them, the older woman returning to the desk but she didn’t take her seat. All three focused attention to her, Geralt tucking his emotions away to be dealt with later. He had time to come up with an apology.He’d bet they’d find him later that evening, probably in a Tavern. Geralt had time to prepare. This quest took first priority.

“You’re very lucky,” the woman said in a peppy tone. “I looked through the staff schedules, and thankfully, Professor Pankratz requested a prep block. It starts in 20 minutes, so let’s get going! I’ll show you to his classroom!” Without another word she was ushering them down halls (quite quickly for an older woman, if he might add) towards _Jaskier’s_ classroom.

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Jaskier nears the end of his class, he gets word that he has some visitors that need his help; Some Witchers. The thought terrifies him, but he dictates that it can't be _The_ Witcher. Once he gets a clue that i might be, he panics and readies himself to face his past.

“Personification,” Jaskier stated with diction.

He was pacing back and forth before the tiers of seats where at least 30 of his students sat. The room itself was like a large pit. The entrances at the very top of the stairs, and walkways that branched off said stairs into rows and rows of desks and benches. At the very bottom was a large desk and a chalkboard that was littered with writings. The room had been decorated with things Jaskier had obtained through the years of his old adventures; Flags and Banners he collected from old battlefields, glass casings full of dried and pressed flowers and all over the continent, even his elven lute was perched on a wall, it not being touched in years. Natural light spilled in from sky lights, giving the bard a constant spotlight as he taught. 

He saw many fresh faces that were starting their first years. It was always his favorite time of year, seeing his new pupils and observing their various personalities through the coming weeks. Jaskier always saw his young eyes in all of them; filled with wonder and a lust for telling the tales of the world.

“Personification is one of the most important tools in any great bard’s ensemble,” Jaskier continued. Reading from a book that he used to keep his notes in order, he waved it around to enunciate his words. “An Exercise; ‘The Dark Scared Me.’ Now,” he closed the small book and pointed it to the crowd. “Any Ideas of how to enhance the phrase with Personification?”

Dozens of hands sprang into the air, waving and trying to claim their teacher’s attention. Jaskier’s hand hovered around before landing on a short, portly woman who beamed with pride. She stood and cleared her throat.

“The Dark’s teeth sank into my soul,” She said.

“Very Good,” Jaskier complimented. “Anyone else?” His hand moved again and landed on a scrawny male with long, blonde hair. He stood and played with a curl nervously.

“The Dark stared me down with dark eyes, making me weak in the knees,” he almost whispered.

“Good, Very well said! But next time, speak up. No one hears the stories of a silent bard,” Jaskier advised. This activity went on for a few more seconds before Jaskier settled his students down so that they could move forward.

“The point being, is that by giving inhuman things human attributes, it clutches your reader’s attention,” Jaskier spouted. “It makes them feel closer to the story, gives them a place in it. You can say a war is nasty, and get the point across fine. But what will put coin in your pocket is saying that The war’s hand raped the land and left her nothing more than a pincushion of swords.” He could hear the frantic note taking of his students, hearing the scritching of quills against parchments. It was music to him.  
He placed the book on his desk and spread some papers out to look over. “For the last 20 minutes of class, I want you all to write something using personification. Write a horrific tale of a haunted mansion, write a joke about a particularly sassy goose. I don’t care about the topic, just write something using what we’ve learned today,” he instructed. There were some murmurs of people sharing ideas with each other and beginning to scribble words before class ended. 

Jaskier took a low breath and picked up his own quill to start plotting his next lesson plans. If he could finish quick enough, he could use his next block to grab lunch and work on his next piece. Creativity had become an Inkwell to him of recent, an inkwell that has been running dry. He hasn’t had much time to sit down and actually compose something for the past few weeks, any time being overtaken by lesson planning and helping new students with their work. But now, finally, he might have a second to just be. Give his aching bones a rest. He vowed that nothing would interrupt him.

One of the large doors to his classroom opened, and Hilda, the building's front desk attendant, poked her old face. Jaskier’s head turned over his shoulder to meet her sweet smile. His hand fingers curled and she accepted the invitation to come into the room fully. Hilda didn’t walk forward, but just stood in front of the door.

“Professor Pankratz,” she began, catching some of the student’s attention. “Your assistance is required, if you have a moment.”

There it was. An Interruption. Jaskier wasn’t going to be anything less than busy today, he supposed. 

“What do you need?” he said. “If Professor Magnamerra needs me, tell her to fuck off. Last time I helped her, my favorite pants were stained with green ink and my assbone was severely bruised,” he joked, causing most of his pupils to erupt in giggles. Professor Magnamerra wasn’t a bad person, she just had a peculiar talent for being clumsy.

Hilda giggled at the statement as well, but she settled and continued. “No, sir. We actually need you to chaperone the Library. Some adventurers came in needing to research, and You’re the only person available.”

Adventurers. Jaskier might be able to get some writing in after all. Hilda liked to pry as much as he did at topics like this, so he felt the urge to pick for details.

“Did they say where they’re from?” Jaskier smiled and crossed his arms, his body leaning against the large desk.

“Oh, I don’t know where Witcher’s come from, but they said they came on business from Traedon,” Hilda answered.

If there was ever a word that made Jaskier freeze in place, it was the word ‘Witcher’. His body locked and became stone, his eyes nor facial expression unaltering. Jaskier’s skin was shivering, but it wasn’t cold at all in the room. In fact, he felt warm, heated. It couldn’t have been Geralt. Geralt hasn’t made any effort to find or contact him in all these years, so why would he now? Geralt didn’t care about him in the slightest, he made that clear back on that forsaken mountain. Fuck, he begged the Gods it wasn’t Geralt. But Shit, he hoped it was him. ‘No’ Jaskier thought. ‘No, you don’t. You fool, It Isn’t Geralt and You don’t want to see him. Why would you?’ He could feel his eye begin to twitch a bit and his fingers dig into his sleeves, into his own arms, as he was fighting himself.

Jaskier heard students whisper about him, about those...Witchers. It wasn’t a secret that he had once travelled with one, and it wasn’t a secret that he despised talking about those days. Jaskier could feel the heat in his face where each and every pair of eyes was staring at him. ‘They aren't him’ he pleaded. ‘Please don’t let it be. I can’t handle it…’

“Yes, Well...If I may inquire, humor my old mind for a moment, but what hair color do these Witchers dawn?” It was asked smuggly. There was only one Witcher that walked the earth with white hair. The odds were Stacked in Jaskier’s favor and he knew it.

“White and Blonde, sir,” Hilda answered with just a tinge of confusion.

Fuck. Gods, he’s HERE. He’s Actually Here, now. Why couldn’t he have had time to prep something; a speech, a poem, fuck, even a Fucking Greeting. How do you greet Geralt after all these years. His chest was heaving and he felt his eyes getting wet. His body was betraying him. Why is he about to cry? He shouldn’t be feeling anything for Geralt, but yet, here he is. Jaskier took in a shaky breath and his eyes drifted across his students. All of them on the edge of their seats and eager to hear what he’ll do. Jaskier didn’t want an audience right now…

“If you all promise, and I mean swear to the Gods above, to Not so much as look at those Witchers, you all get full marks for the day and get to leave early,” Jaskier spoke, trying to hide the lilt in his voice. His students swiftly started stuffing items into bags and pushing chairs out so that they could leave. “But!” He exclaimed, catching everyone's attention. There was...strain in his voice. “If I hear you even whisper about them, You’ll all be writing in Iambic Pentameter as long as you are in my class.”

The threat worked instantly, and the mass of people herded themselves out of the classroom in complete silence.

“When everyone is out, please send them in, Hilda,” Jaskier requested. She bowed and waited to the side as people passed by her and out of the classroom. He felt a headache setting in behind his eyes. He removed his round glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose to try and ease the stress. Eventually, slowly, everyone had filtered out of the room, Hilda tailing the last student out.

Jaskier was alone. Like he’d been for many years. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the company that had once brought him such joy.

Geralt had been trying to meditate when Hilda left the three of them in the hall. His back leaning against the cold stone wall and his eyes close. But gods, Geralt could Hear Jaskier from behind the door. If Geralt concentrated, and keened into the air, he could even smell the vague scent of summer flowers and sandalwood; Jaskier’s natural scent. The minutes passed both too slow and too fast, and an apology was still failing to form itself. Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t he express himself like a normal person? Why was it always Jaskier that made him trip over himself like a drunken fool?

The door creaked open and the hall began to flood with young humans who were all as silent as the dead. He watched some of them try and sneak glimpses of him and his companions, but once they realized he noticed them, they quickly averted their eyes and quickened their pace. As they all made their way back out, the woman that had guided them emerged from the classroom and closed the door behind her.

“Go on inside,” she said. She gave the group a smile before she walked back down the hall from once they came. 

Geralt and Yennefer shared a look. A long, silent one that was filled with knowing and comfort. She reached for his hand and squeezed it firmly, holding him in place to reel him in from his thoughts. Geralt's eyes closed and he sighed, squeezing hers tenderly before standing up just a little bit straighter. Cirilla grasped his shoulder and she was beaming.

"We've got you," Cirilla reassured.

They had him. They always had him. Just as Jaskier always had. He could do this. Yennefer's hand let go of his, Cirilla's hand dropped from his shoulder, and Geralt walked over to the large door. His hand gripped the handle, and after a hesitant moment, he gingerly opened the only barrier between the two of them. No going back. 

The door gave way and they entered.

Geralt only had to take a few slow steps down the stairs to see him fully. He paused when their eyes met.

Jaskier had aged, was the first thing Geralt noticed. The bard should be nearing his 50s, at least, if he could remember his birthday correctly. Though, he didn’t look as most humans had when reaching such an age. Time had only pampered him. There were light wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and grey was sprouting from his temples, widowspeak, and beard. His hair had grown to chin length and the top half was pulled back into a small ponytail.

One thing time hadn’t changed, however, was his fashion sense. He was wearing an elaborately embroidered, blue and white doubet that was buttoned up to his very throat, and his sleeves were billowing and loose. He looked regal and dignified, giving off the air of a revered and intelligent scholar.

But one thing time hadn’t touched much were his eyes. Sure, they aged, and glasses were now assisting them, but even from here Geralt could tell that those cerulean gems hadn’t once faded with time. They still pierced him like they had so many, many, years ago.

Jaskier’s heartbeat skipped and his breathing was quick and erratic. Geralt could practically taste the thick scent of fear and shock that filled the chamber. It started to mix with his own guilt.

“Oh my gods, it is you,” Jaskier whispered. The classroom was designed to amplify any noise made from the ‘stage’, so even his hushed voice could be heard from the back of the class. He was forcibly choking down his tears, his excitement, his fear…

Geralt took a few more hesitant steps downwards, and he could see the wetness in the other’s eyes. His heart felt like it was in a vice grip and he felt his own eyes beginning to burn. ‘Come on, say something, you idiot!’ Geralt demanded of himself.

“Jaskie-”

“Don’t.” The bard stopped him dead in his tracks. His hands balled into fists and he stood straighter. “Only my friends get to address me by that. And Right now, Geralt Of Rivia, you are on the same level of association with me as my students. Julien, or Professor Pankratz,” He demanded. He saw Geralt’s frame retract. The Witcher had no right coming here, bringing the bard to tears by merely just existing in the same room…

Yennefer stepped beside Geralt.

He went back for _her_.

“I see you two are still...Acquainted,” Jaskier grimaced. He could feel the Witch’s violet eyes seering into his body. She didn’t look hateful or angry. If anything, there was a look of...concern. Why?

Another girl stepped forward. She looked old enough to be one of his students. Light blonde hair, a scar down her face, and a very gentle face that contrasted the large blades on her back. A Witcher, Jaskier could discern.

“And you’ve found yourself another travelling companion,” He said with indifference. Geralt travelled with many strangers, and other Witchers all the time. This one must have just been along for this current quest.

“Cirilla of Cintra,” she said sweetly as she took some steps forward, her hand extended.

Cintra?

Geralt went back for his Child Of Surprise…The child he proclaimed he’d never return to, denouncing Destiny as merely a damned curse. He went back for someone he’d never even wanted. The thought made Jaskier’s very blood warm, beginning to boil. This wasn’t fucking fair. If Jaskier hadn’t known any better, he’d lash out at the young woman, curse her name and her family and make it known of how Geralt had felt about her before her birth.

Jaskier didn’t, however. He knew of Destiny’s cruel ways, and Cirilla being here was just a part of it’s will. She wasn’t here to taunt him. She had no part in this tragedy.

“Cirilla,” Jaskier greeted. He stepped forward and shook her beginning-to-callous hands. Jaskier curbed his nasty desires and smiled at her. “It’s nice to finally see what became of you. I was there at your mother’s engagement. I hadn’t realized it had been so long.” Jaskier’s throat was drying, himself barely able to stay on top of his emotions. The way she smiled at him, however, was refreshing. He could see that she had been leading a happy life. He retracted his hand and just began to eye over the other two, not even meeting their gazes.

Geralt had long since fallen silent, his entire person focused on the fact that Jaskier was alive and thriving. Everything in him began to hitch again, his eyes merely a window. He began to fall back into himself and his thoughts. Geralt just began fighting himself again, trapped between wanting to sweep the bard into his arms and hold him and wanting to fucking run. Gods, he felt ill again.

“Julien,” Yennefer addressed him. She finally got his eyes to look straight into her’s, but his bitter expression. “We need your help.”

“I’ve heard,” He responded swiftly. “Why do you think I’d help you?” The tension started to creep into the air, it's talons starting to sink into everyone's throats.

"Because, If you don't, an entire kingdom will fall," Yennefer said with conviction. "Please, We are begging!"

"The only one begging is you," Jaskier spat. His eyes trailed over to a still silent Geralt. The air became heated with Tension's heavy breath. It made Jaskier's neck hairs stand on end. "In fact, You haven't said a single thing that mattered since you've stepped in here!"

'Geralt went back.'

"Actually, I don't know if there is anything you can say! You were always vocal with your feelings, weren't you? You made it very clear how you felt about me," Jaskier's voice cracked out. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

'Geralt went back _for them_.'

The Witcher's head was flooding with guilt and sorrow. This beast, this Tension was beginning to carve him up and gut him. Fuck, he needed to speak, to say something. But his throat was closing and he was choking.

"So what can you say now?" Jaskier exclaimed. His cheeks wet with his tears. "What can the great linguist, Geralt Of Rivia, say to convince me that I should be roped back into his life? Because I'm not sure there IS anything he can say that would move me to-"

"I'm Sorry." Geralt's hoarse and broken voice cut through the beast right then and there. He was shaking, his own tears starting to fall, and his words filled with an intense pain that he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since he forced the bard away. 

Jaskier fell silent for a moment and he could feel it. The quiet but terrible ache in Geralt's apology. It was just two words, and the bard could barely hear the whisper, but it rang through the chambers of his heart and made it quiver. Geralt meant it.

'Geralt Came Back. _For you_.'

It was a long moment of uninterrupted silence. Jaskier wanted so bad to run over and hug the fool and kiss him senseless. But a part of him was still so hesitant, so scared that if he did, it would ruin it all.

"Well…" Jaskier began, his hand removing his glasses before he wiped away his own tears. "That's a start." A wonderful start, for the both of them, really. Jaskier still was hesitant, a nagging part of him not wanting to believe Geralt fully. But he knew from the way he saw Geralt's lips slightly up turn to a smile.

The bard placed his glasses back on his nose and looked around at everyone. He took in a quick breath to steady himself and clapped his hands together to clear the remaining air.

"Well then...Let us be off," Jaskier voiced. “We only have about an hour or so to work, so...Let me lead the way.” 

He walked past the three, his hand landing on Geralt’s shoulder as he passed by. Geralt tensed at the touch, his skin tingling long after he pulled back. The Witcher turned back, and saw the Bard, His Bard, standing just a few feet ahead of him and staring at him with those too patient eyes. Geralt wiped his eyes free of any stray tears and swallowed around the lump that had started to fade in his throat. He should have said so many more things, given the other a proper apology about how he had acted in the past. Geralt would do it, but just looking at the man in front of him, alive and well and smiling at him again...It just makes his mouth run dry and his mind void of words.

Geralt turned his head to find Yennefer, but she had moved to Cirilla’s side. They both had tears welling in their eyes, but there wasn’t a hint of sadness in their gazes. Yennefer’s lips had turned into a small smile, captivated by the whole scene before her. Her arm was entwined with the younger woman who was beaming with fondness. The Witch nodded towards Geralt, almost motioning him to walk towards his old companion.

Geralt’s eyes turned to Jaskier, and without any more hesitation, he followed close behind as Jaskier guided them to the Library.

And a guide they did need. As Jaskier strolled easily down hallway after hallway, the trio had trouble keeping track of where they came from and where they’re going. It all smeared together in a haze of stone walls and endless doors, and Jaskier didn’t seem at all phased by it. If it had only been the three of them, it would have taken hours to reach the Library. Jaskier had them at the door in only three short minutes.

Two guards stand next to the large double doors that were the entrance, and the entrance itself was at the end of a very decorated hall, full of banners and artifacts that have been recovered by the academy. There weren’t many people, rarely any students. As Geralt remembered, this library was intended for scholarly research instead of student study. When they approached, both guards straightened before they relaxed at the sight of Jaskier. The bard passed both of them, not paying their prying eyes any mind. Jaskier’s hand landed on one of the large handles and slowly tugged at the heavy dark oak door. It creaked under its own weight as it swung inward and revealed it’s well-protected contents.

The first thing anyone could point out was that the Library was massive. And as far as Geralt could tell, has only gotten bigger since he’s last visited. There was easily another floor added on to accommodate the expanse of books the academy has either created or uncovered over the past decade. The entire chamber was a peaceful quiet, and the musk of dust and leather was all the Geralt could smell. Before them lay an ocean of shelves and scriptures, and they’d be lost and adrift in it’s currents if they didn’t have the Compass that was Jaskier. 

He hurried them up to the third story and immediately headed towards a little corner out of the way of any tables or shelves. There wasn’t so much as a sign above the two, floor or ceiling shelves that told of their contents. But as Yennefer’s fingers traced the worn spines and as Geralt began to read the gold lettering on the covers, they were exactly where they needed to be.

“Alright,” Jaskier said softly, a stack of books tucked against his chest. “Anthology Of Hexes And Their Origins, A Record Of Magik Caused Plagues, and I found a small biography of Talluse of Traedon, a bard who lived in the kingdom many years ago.” He placed the three large books onto a nearby table where Cirilla was already skimming through a journal of somesort. Yennefer walked over and sat next to her, her arms full of research papers. She sprawled the parchments out and smiled contentedly as she started to peruse them.

“I think there’s another collection of books around here from the west, where Traedon lies...I’ll have a quick look,” Jaskier concluded before he just about walked off. The only thing that stopped him was Geralt’s hand on his shoulder from behind. Jaskier’s head turned to face the man, and the only thing Geralt could see was the pride of a man showing off his talents.

The bard was oh so talented. He should be proud of himself.

“Thank you,” Geralt practically whispered. “For all of this.”

“What’s a bard for?” Jaskier said, nonchilantly, but with a smirk to his lips. 

Geralt’s hand fell from Jaskier and the bard walked off to the other side of the floor to continue his search. The Witcher watched him walk off and he let out a sigh. He took a seat on the opposite side of Yennefer, still being able to see where Jaskier was. His hand picked up and brought one of the books over and opened it, but he began to scan through the collection of tales and recounts that may lead them into the proper direction. Though, he found it difficult to concentrate on the reading. Geralt’s head kept wondering back to how to properly form an apology.

He’d get it. He wanted to get it.

Jaskier’s fingers trailed across a row of books, inspecting every spine to try and find what exactly he was looking for. This entire section was dedicated to memoirs and documents of most royal family trees in the continent, their long reigns and the (often bloody) histories that kept those reigns long. His tongue clicked against the top of his mouth a few times, and his eyes squinted through his spectacles as he searched across the bound books, failing to find the Traedon name. ‘That’s strange,’ he thought as his eyes met with an open space on the shelf. ‘It should be right here. Did Yennefer grab it? I didn’t see her come over here…’

Slow footsteps clacked across the tiled floor in Jaskier’s direction, sauntering up to his side. The steps were slow and rhythmic. It didn’t take a Witcher’s sense to notice the thick scents of wet pinewood in the air. To anyone else, it wouldn’t be a problem. To Jaskier, it’s absolutely nauseating. And to rub salt into the already fresh wound that was today, that horribly familiar voice perked up and caught his ears.

“May I help you find something, ‘Professor’ Pankratz?” A Snobby voice asked.

‘This day keeps getting better, doesn’t it?’ Jaskier thought to himself. His eyes swung to the side and there in his greasy glory was Valdo Marx, standing with a dark red, leather bound book in his hand. Engraved to the cover was the word ‘History of Traedon And Neighboring Kingdoms’. He let out a low sigh and put on his most ‘indifferent’ look possible.

“Yes, actually, ‘Mister’ Marx,” Jaskier spat out the title like it was rotten. “The book you have in your hand is what we’re looking for.” His hand reached out for the book, but Valdo’s arm swiftly pulled back and kept it just out of reach.

“Oh is it? I hadn’t heard,” Valdo replied, his words coated with lies. He must have been eavesdropping. He opened the book and just merely looked it over, not reading a word of it.

“What great godly force is compelling you to ruin my life today, Valdo? Make a trade with the fae for a bigger dick and payment is annoying the one who has the biggest?” Jaskier teased. From the way the other’s cheeks puffed, he could tell he struck a chord on the other’s tendons. Valdo simply chuckled and regained himself before speaking.

“Oh no, I’m quite happy with myself. No, Julien, I simply caught wind of your guests,” He responded. Jaskier made a mental note that he'd be following through with that threat for his students. “Witchers, as the rumors go. Old friends?” He cooed.

“Something like that,” Jaskier answered, his arms crossing over his chest and his back stiffening to add inches to him. “Helping them save a kingdom. Such is expected of our work together.”

Another chuckle rumbled from the other bard’s throat. “And here I thought the Great Julien Pankratz had retired to a life of teaching, befitting of a bard of his skill.” The phrase held a sense of mockery. 

Jaskier’s chest puffed out in retaliation. “And what is That supposed to mean?” he challenged. Valdo walked over and swung a pudgy arm around the back of Jaskier’s shoulder and tugged him down to his height. He smelt of cheap oils and of a disgusting musky haze of even cheaper perfumes.

“Oh, Julien, dear. I think you know perfectly well of what I mean,” Marx began, an air of fake disappointment in his words. “If you had the skills of a great bard, one such as I, You wouldn’t need to be teaching! If you were talented, Nobles would have been falling at your feet long ago to have you in their courts. Everyone knows that teaching falls to those that were not wanted, Julien.” 

Jaskier’s hands balled into fists and gripped at his own clothes. His cheeks puffed and his skin prickled over at the insult. What did Valdo know of his talents? Jaskier could have gone off anywhere and became a renowned performer, could have gained his riches and fame and never looked back. Jaskier could have done all of that if he wanted…

‘You could have done that if people _wanted_ you’.

Geralt was watching and listening to everything. Every vile word that drooled from the bastard's mouth, every insult and mock that Valdo made, made the Witcher’s cold blood start to steam. He sat there and watched and begged Jaskier to punch the poor cretin square in his face, just like he’d seen the bard do countless times in the past. Perhaps Jaskier simply couldn’t or else he’d risk his career. Instead, he just watched Jaskier’s hands ball up and shake, every muscle knotting together tightly. His heart was so quick and it stumbled, he seemed almost...scared. The bard was upset, to say the least, but the kind of upset that set in your bones wrong, made your knees buckle, and left your mind wracked with dread and anxiety.

It was the feeling that these demeaning terms were right. It was a familiar feeling to Geralt, and it was Jaskier who used to soothe the ache over with endearments and praise. The light hit the other’s face just so and Geralt could see the redness in the bard’s cheeks and the glistening in those blue eyes.

The Witcher had decided that Jaskier had cried enough today.

His body moved almost autonomously, anger flowing through each and every vein in his form. Whether he was walking or sprinting over, Geralt wasn’t even sure. He just knew that he was going to make Valdo deeply regret ever knowing Jaskier. As if he were facing any beast, all he could feel was how his hands lifted the portly man up by his shirt, and all he could hear was the slam when he knocked the other into the shelf behind him. Books clattered to the floor, Valdo was a good foot off the floor, and Geralt could feel the other’s breath catch in his throat from surprise. Golden eyes with thin, slit pupils tearing deep in Valdo’s very flesh.

“Now listen to me, you sorry excuse for a lesser human,” Geralt growled deep from his very throat. Valdo’s hands began to claw at the arms that held him firm, but the Witcher’s grip didn’t falter. “I’ve seen that man calm rising wars with the songs he plays at banquets. I’ve witnessed him carve a man Nipples to Nuts with insults so creative, they’re their own language that only he can speak. I’ve even seen him calm the most terrible beast this side of the world to sleep with his lute!” Geralt’s spit splattered across Valdo’s face and his hands tightened somehow harder, pulling the sad excuse of a man closer to him.

“Professor Pankratz is more of a bard than you could ever wish to be. Julien Pankratz is more of a _man_ than a squabbling, bloated pig like you could ever hope to be.” Geralt was met with eyes full of terror, Valdo sweating and shaking in his grip. “The only reason I don’t skin you here and now is because I’d feel bad for the poor maids who’d have to deal with scrubbing your disease ridden blood from the floorboards.”

There was the clattering of a book to the floor, and the pungent scent of ammonia suddenly filled the air. Geralt’s eyes glanced down, and a dark patch had slowly begun to spread down Valdo’s pant leg. Geralt looked back up and was met with the sniveling face of the bastard. His lip curled upwards in disgust. The Witcher had completed his task, but just to make sure the pest stayed away…

Geralt’s fist reeled back and with lightning like swiftness, he slugged the other, his fist connecting right into the other’s plump cheek. It wasn’t enough to bludgeon the man, of course, but when he dropped Valdo to the floor, he noticed how he was cradling his jaw and fixing it back into its proper place. The disgusting thing scrambled off in a fit of defeat and fear, rushing past a few scholarly women who just giggled at him. Geralt rubbed over his knuckles that struck him and soothed the tingling that lingered. Once Valdo was out of sight, Geralt’s shoulders relaxed, and he turned around. Without thinking about it, he knelt down and picked up the book that was being held hostage for Jaskier. When he rose, he finally met the other’s face.

Jaskier’s hand was covering his mouth, but Geralt could see the creases in his eyes and the way the blue seemed to shine extra bright in said eyes. He was smiling from behind that hand; that sweet one that Jaskier gave Geralt in moments of resolved peril. A smile full of trust and adoration. Just knowing it was there made The Witcher’s own lips turn upwards a small bit, reflexively. There was so much about Jaskier that looked different, but those eyes...Those cerulean eyes that Geralt was just drowning in at the moment were the same he'd drowned in decades ago. So gentle and serene, a sanctuary in their own right.

“Geralt!” Yennefer called over in a very harsh whisper. It shook the two men from their gazes, Jaskier’s cheeks bearing a deep red now as he quickly averted his gaze from the other. The Witcher just smiled to himself before he turned his attention towards a very worried Witch. “What are you doing? Are you trying to get us thrown out?” Yennefer said in an annoyed tone. She stood only a short distance away, and she probably watched the whole thing.

Jaskier perked up to defend Geralt in less than a heartbeat. “Oh, no, don’t worry, Yen. Valdo isn’t held high around here. This isn’t the first time he’s ran from the library holding his cheek,” Jaskier slightly chuckled. His gaze turned back and lands on Geralt again, that smile cracking through again. “And if anyone is concerned, I’ll put in a good word for you.” Geralt felt some heat pool in his own face.

There was a short sigh from Yennefer and even if she didn’t fully relax at the answer, she did turn back to the table without any argument.  
The Witcher offered the book back to Jaskier, and he took it, his hand grazing over Geralt’s calloused skin for a short moment before he pulled the book to his chest. He fixed his glasses and nodded towards Geralt as a Thank you. The other just lightly shrugged and smiled as a You’re Welcome.

“Well, Dear Witcher. Shall we get back to work? I have a feeling we might be on the right path with this,” Jaskier said as he gestured to the book a bit.

Geralt just gave a low, gentle hum as a yes, and followed his bard as they made their way back to the table. He’d find the rest of the words, but at least he had started with what he wanted to say.

‘It’s a start’ Geralt repeats to himself. ‘A better one.’

Jaskier, all the while the team poured over notes and scriptures of the now unfolding mystery of this quest, had one thought that eased all his muscles and seemed to hold him strong for the rest of the day, even if it might have just been false hope.

‘Maybe someone does want me,’ he thought. ‘Maybe...someone wants me back. Genuinely.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything can be learned from me when one reads these chapters, it's that i like seeing Jaskier cry, and I like good, old fashion romance tropes. Jock defends Nerd BF? Yes! Jock Gives Nerd His Book Back In A Sweet And Tender Way? Yes! These Idiots Having Trouble Talking To Each Other Because Of Repressed Feelings? YES!
> 
> Long Chapter, I'm sorry, but i want this to be relatively short so I can get back to Old Tunes, New Melodies. Anyway...Stay tuned for the next episode. I think it'll be a good one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds it difficult to sleep, so he decides it might help to walk about for a bit. As destiny would have it, he wasn't the only one awake this evening, and he wasn't the only one with an apology to make either.

That afternoon and part of the evening was spent in the library. It took hours, and Jaskier did have to part to give his students a quick lesson before excusing them early and returning to the group to continue the search. But eventually, after book after book, story after story, they find it. A short line from an easily skippable poem in a historic recounting of a war is where they find the curse’s cure. Geralt was the one who heard it and pieced it together when Jaskier was reading it aloud to himself. The cure seemed to be using the remnants of the ancestor that happened to be cursed in a ritual, having the descendants apologize for their family’s past sins. Humiliating, of course, but that was more than likely the point. Yennefer can perform the ritual easily, and the family of Traedon did have a family crypt.

Their search was over. And tomorrow, the trio decided to head over and cure the city of their dreaded plague. However, now, the night was settling over Oxenfurt, and everyone was drained of their energy. They would have happily spent coin on a room in an Inn. After all, the taverns and Inns in Oxenfurt had a reputation for having higher standards of living than most other civilizations. Jaskier wouldn’t have it, though, and insisted that they stay in his home as his guests for the night.

And what a home it was. Many Oxenfurt professors live on the campus itself, but in their own district of townhouses. They weren’t Manors by any means, but they could accommodate large families easily and comfortably. Jaskier lived alone, but leave it to him to decorate his home as if he was constantly expecting guests. Fine art on the hallway walls, cleaned and neat to an unnecessary degree, and every room held an inviting and cozy feeling. It reflected its owner like a mirror.

After a late dinner, Jaskier lent a guest room to the trio to use, two actually, but the trio tended to sleep in the same room rather than apart from each other. It felt safer, for all of them. But this evening, Geralt found sleep just hard to come by. He hadn’t gotten everything off his chest, and a new anxiety started to carve into his chest; that he wouldn’t have time to say everything he wanted. They were leaving the next morning, and Jaskier had already gone off to sleep. There wasn’t any way he could make time without disturbing the bard…

Geralt slinked his way out of the large bed the three of them shared, having to weasel out of Cirilla’s demanding arms. Eventually, with some patience and some luck, he was standing without waking either Yennefer or Ciri. He watched over them for a moment, just standing there in the pitch dark room, thinking about the words he wants to say. He felt restless. Geralt needed to step out and get some air, maybe walking would tire him out. Stealthily, The Witcher crept out of the room, and gingerly closed the door behind him.

The bard’s presence was always soothing to him. Geralt remembered those nights where sleep evaded him and the one thing that would always bring him to slumber was Jaskier’s heartbeat. It was steady and hypnotic in its rhythm. And even though Geralt doubted he could hang around the bard’s bedroom long, maybe just listening would make him feel better. Geralt followed down the path where he remembered Jaskier walked down, following his scent until he reached the end of a hall. There was a single door, and it was open, and the bard’s scent was strong. And so was his heartbeat. 

He’s awake.

Geralt’s heart jumped into his throat at the discovery, his mouth running dry again. The hairs on his skin stood on end and the air in his lungs turning to solid stone. What was he supposed to do? He still didn’t have the words he wanted to give Jaskier, and any that he might have had were now smacked down from fear. Geralt feared talking to Jaskier. He feared that he’d just make it all worse. The Witcher was aware that discussing his feelings was always his weakness. The Witcher was aware that discussing his feelings with Jaskier was always his weakness. But Geralt knew that if he didn’t talk now, he might not get the chance to do it again.

They were both here. They were both awake. Geralt had to do this. Geralt wanted to do this.

He collected himself with a few long breaths, steadying his prickled nerves and staying his racing mind. Geralt took a few quiet steps to the doorframe, not making a single sound just in case he was wrong, and he peered into the bedroom.

The room was definitely Jaskier’s room. Half of it was the actual bedroom; a large, luxurious bed, a vanity that housed numerous perfumes and cosmetics, and fancy armoire. The other half was an office; a desk littered with papers and open books, a lute on a stand next to a music stand, and multiple empty jars of ink that were scattered about the area. On the opposite end of the room, though, was a balcony. The doors are open, a night breeze sneaking in and cooling the room. And there, leaning against the railing of the balcony, was Jaskier.

He was shed of his elaborate doublet and shoes, left in his loose undershirt and pants. His hair was still tied back into that little ponytail, the greys shining in the pale moonlight. The bard was drinking. Geralt could smell it, some sort of rum if he knew his booze. The bard wasn’t stumbling or acting erratic, so he wasn’t drunk. Geralt might be, though, if he kept watching the decadent scene. His cheeks warmed as he just watched Jaskier, even if he wasn’t doing much. His heartbeat filled his ears and that same familiar scent filled his sinuses. It was a quiet, warm moment.

Geralt hadn’t felt like this since Jaskier left. He missed this…

The Witcher moved, whether he wanted to or not, towards the balcony. He stayed slow and quiet, trying to not scare the other. When Geralt reached the banister, however, the thought came to him that maybe he already knew he was here. As his arms landed on the railing and he leaned into them for support, the other didn’t so much as flinch. There were just a few feet separating them. They remained silent for a long while as Geralt overlooked the town below them.   
The district itself sat higher than the rest of Oxenfurt, and the entire west side of the city sprawled out into an endless ocean of buildings. Some were glowing with warm lights, lively even this deep into the night. It was dull, but out in the maze of streets, Geralt could hear music playing from somewhere. But the night was still peaceful. It was always easy to find peace when Jaskier was beside him.

“Couldn’t sleep either, I presume,” Jaskier said, his voice soft. He swirled the amber drink in his glass before bringing it to his lips and sipping from it. It wasn’t full by any means, Jaskier having no intentions to get drunk tonight.

Geralt’s lips curled into a small smile. “I’m finding it difficult tonight,” he replied simply. He made an effort to speak as soft as the other, like this moment would break if he dared speak up. The bard just raised his glass towards Geralt a bit, in a small cheer. Shared troubles, Geralt assumed.

The silence set in once again, The Witcher didn’t want it to. ‘Speak, you fool’ he cursed himself. ‘You have him alone, so speak!’. His mouth was beginning to dry out again, and his throat started to close around his tongue. But he couldn’t let this start again. No, he needed to speak, even if what he wanted to say was still abstract to him at the moment. He just needed to start. He took control over his mouth before it got away from him again.

“How are you feeling?” Geralt asked, his head turning to finally look at Jaskier. The moonlight hit his face and reflected off his features beautifully. His wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were gentle, evidence of a life's worth of happiness. Geralt’s heart beat just a bit faster at that thought.

Jaskier let out a long and deep breath, the air pushing between his teeth, like the question was difficult to answer. He thought for a moment, trying to find a phrase that reflected how he felt. Tired was a valid option. Elated was another. But overall?

“Wracked,” Jaskier answered. “If that makes an ounce of sense. Just…” his muscles tensed and relaxed, an attempt at stretching them without making large movements. “I didn’t expect for today to have happened. I rolled out of bed this morning wondering what I was going to do for this week’s exam. Not once did it cross my mind that I’d meet you again. Especially not so…” he waved his hand in the air for a second. “Boring-ly?” he concluded.

Geralt laughed a bit. “Oh, and what were you expecting?” He watched Jaskier’s lips curl into a full smile and saw his chest puff up a bit.

“Well, as I always saw it happening, the town would be under siege from Niffelgard or some dreaded wyvern. And you, being the great humanitarian you are, would ride into town to try and help the innocents,” Jaskier began relaying his fictitious tale, as if he’d put months of thought into it. “And you’d find me, protecting my students to the best of my abilities. I’d be beaten and hurt, and once my students are safe, you’d lift me on Roach and we’d ride to safety. Then I’d slap you for ripping my shirt in the fray.”

Both shared a laugh at Jaskier’s dramatics. The bard’s chuckle reverberated in the very pit of Geralt’s chest, making his heart quiver. It had been so long since Geralt had heard that glorious laugh, and it moved him the same way it always had. It warmed his whole body and made his stomach flutter. It made Geralt feel...Complete. How is it that Jaskier could always make him feel this way so easily? Eventually the laughing fit settled and Jaskier took a sip of his drink again, his tongue running across his lips lightly.

Jaskier took short glances back between the city and Geralt, not wanting to stare at the man too long in case it’d run him off. It was difficult, he found. Geralt’s smile was a trap that he’d happily fall for every time he saw it. It tugged at his heart strings in mysterious ways, the way those untouched lips rarely turned upwards. Everytime Geralt smiled at him, he knew he was doing something right. It made him feel right. He hadn’t seen it in so long, the image of Geralt’s face was beginning to stay in that harsh snarl he had used on the bard in their last meeting. All because Jaskier couldn’t keep his mouth shut for five minutes. Gods, he should say something.

The silence settled in once again, and Geralt was struggling to think. His eyes were just staring, entranced by every little movement in Jaskier’s face. His oceanic eyes running over the scenery, his lips resting into that hypnotic smile, his tongue running over his soft lips...He should say something. Gods, why was speaking so fucking difficult?

“I should say-”

“You Know I-”

The two stumbled over each other.

“No, Go ahe-”

“Please, Contin-”

They chuckled again. Geralt decided to let the bard go first. Jaskier sighed a bit before gathering his words to the best of his abilities. 

“I’m Sorry,” the bard said. Wait...What? Geralt’s head pulled back a bit from the pure surprise of the apology. What was he even apologizing for? This seemed so...backwards to The Witcher. Jaskier must have seen the confusion in his eyes and smiled a bit at his bewilderment. He continued.

“Time has given me wisdom after all these years. And I now know that...you weren’t the only one in the wrong up on that mountain,” the bard began. Geralt’s jaw opened once and then closed quickly, clenching a bit. “I overstepped, back then, I realized. You were upset, and I thought that maybe pretending like it hadn’t happened would have brought you back to Earth. I thought that we could go back to before you and Yen’s fight so easily…” Jaskier admitted. Geralt had never once thought of the fight like that. Had it been eating at Jaskier as much as it had at him?

“I was selfish. I was stupid. I am sorry,” Jaskier finally said. Saying this was a weight off his back, the tension from his shoulders loosening at the very action of saying them. Even if Jaskier had accepted his actions a long time ago, they still needed to be apologized for. He overstepped then, and regretted it.

“Julien…” Geralt started, just lost in the apology. The bard obviously meant it, every word piercing Geralt’s soul like they were the sharpest of blades. How could he make it look so easy? It almost wasn’t fair. It came to Jaskier so simply, like he wasn’t thinking about it. Maybe...that’s the problem. Maybe Geralt was just overthinking.

So...He stopped thinking about the words he wanted to say, and focused on what he wanted to say. As if a dam had burst, Geralt very much knew what he wanted to say, the feelings coming full force, even if words were hard to find that described them. He didn’t have as big of a vocabulary as Jaskier, but maybe he could get the same feelings across in simpler ways and phrases. Geralt let his breath go, and fell deep into the other’s blue eyes that have been trained on him for the past moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt started. Good. It was a start. “For what I said. You were right. I was mad, and confused. And you were the closest thing to lash out against.” Geralt’s hand moved a bit, small twitches that help carry him from point to point. As his hand waved, it passively brushed Jaskier's knuckles. The bard’s hand didn’t move, or even flinch. The Witcher let his own hand relax, their fingers back to back and ghosting over each other. His hand was warm against Geralt’s cold skin.

“You didn’t deserve it, even if you think you provoked me,” Geralt said in a low tone. Their eyes didn’t break, but he could feel Jaskier’s fingers start to move, slotting themselves delicately between his. “You never deserved my wrath. Even before the mountain, you didn’t deserve my harsh words. And now, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t ever forgive me. I don’t really expect you to,” The bard’s fingers were fire against Geralt’s flesh, searing their way into his heart. 

He liked that heat, and he wanted to hold it. His hand moved slowly, lifting itself, before Geralt gently, ever so tenderly, slotted their hands together. Jaskier’s palm was soft, a few callouses from decades of playing, but they felt so pure in contrast to his own. The grip tightened a bit, the bard holding him tighter, his thumb running over the rough skin of Geralt’s knuckles. This was...right. He had Jaskier back, at least for now, and he is revelling in this gentle moment. 

“I can’t fix what i’ve done in the past, and I regret that,” Geralt admitted. After, he locked eyes with the bard, made sure that he had his full attention. His grip tightened around the other’s to hold him firm and close. “But I can promise that I’ll do better. Being with you again...It makes me want to be better.” 

Jaskier’s lips curled into a smile, one that beamed like the morning sun over the mountains, like the rays that’d cast through forest canopies and warm the moss floor. It was the same smile he had given just that afternoon, but it was shielded by the same hand he was holding so tightly. It was a wordless thank you, and it made Geralt melt.

“My,” the other almost chuckled. “Time and Travels have made us both sappy, haven’t they?” The Witcher let out a low snicker. They were both older, Geralt presumed, and even if he hadn’t aged much, perhaps he had changed. The wording did make Geralt wonder, though.

“And in that time and in those travels, did you ever find what pleases you?” The Witcher inquired, taken back to that night when Jaskier offered to run away with him. It’s been some time, and Geralt was curious. His head bowed a bit to be more on Jaskier’s level. They weren’t far apart, but they could be closer. Geralt hoped they could be a bit closer.

“I thought I did,” Jaskier giggled a bit. “Then he yelled at me and made me hike down a mountain by myself.” Those blue eyes were half lidded and he inched closer. Just a tad. His breath was on his face now, and the words made The Witcher’s spine shutter. He let out a low huff that acted as a laugh at the answer. “And what of you, Witcher? Did you ever find what pleases you?”

Geralt didn’t even need to think to come up with that answer. “I did,” he started, mimicking the other’s voice in a teasing tone. “Then I yelled at him and made him hike down a mountain by himself.” The bard’s cheeks flushed with a deep red, but his eyes were still captured in Geralt’s gaze.

“Well then,” he whispered, his head tilting forward just the tiniest bit closer. Their foreheads were touching now, and the Witcher nudged against Jaskier a bit. “I suppose it’s well and good that we’ve both found what pleases us, isn’t it?” Jaskier’s eyes escaped for a moment to look down at Geralt’s lip, quickly. The look was a question, and once again, Geralt didn’t need to think to give the bard an answer.

Geralt just let out a ‘hmm’ and pressed closer. All distance between them was gone, and in it’s space was a kiss. A chaste one, filled with care and kindness more than anything else. Jaskier’s skin made Geralt burn harsher, and he’d be damned if he pulled away. Everything about this pulled Geralt’s senses and nerves taut and they were being played by the bard like it was a practiced action. 

He felt his other hand come up and cup his cheek, Jaskier’s gentle thumb caressing the scar on the old Witcher’s face. Geralt leaned into the feeling, and soon pushed to deepen the kiss. His tongue pushed against those supple lips, and they granted him entry without any objection. Geralt could taste the rum, he could taste the natural sweetness that made up Jaskier, and by Melitele, he could taste his own heart in the back of his throat. It was pounding and pushing blood to every place that mattered. Geralt reflexively pulled on Jaskiers waist in an attempt to bring him flush to his body. The bard could feel exactly how Geralt felt about him now. And he had the nerve to smirk about it.. They broke apart, enough for Geralt’s head to tilt towards the large bed.

“Should we…,” He started.

“Yes, Bed, Please, Now,” Jaskier swiftly cut him off. He tugged at the Witcher’s hand, pulling him over to the bed. Geralt let himself be pushed onto the cushioned surface and he invited the bard to sit on his lap. 

His hands grabbed at the buttons on Jaskier’s blouse and undid them with ease. Having access to the man’s torso, Geralt saw that he’s gone a bit soft in the middle. Geralt smiled a small bit, his hands kneading at Jaskier’s sides in an intimate fashion. He liked the way it made Jaskier smile. He really liked the way Jaskier started kissing his jawline, biting at the sensitive places at his neck.

Gods, Jaskier was incredible. The way his teeth scraped against his skin, the way his fingers brushed through his hair, and most certainly the way Jaskier was so gentle with him. The bard always was when it came to anything physical; stitching his flesh back together after hunts, working the worst knots out of his muscles after long treks, soothing his aching head with gentle lullabies after harsh nights. 

Geralt didn’t deserve Jaskier’s kindness. Geralt didn’t deserve Jaskier’s forgiveness. Who was Geralt that he should be pampered with these kisses after he had hurt him for years? And Jaskier seemed so enthralled by this. Geralt had seen this play before, through his own eyes. Some people pretend to apologize, to care for you like they always had. Showered you with affection and empty words, before reverting back to how things were. It never felt that way in the moment, it always felt real...It hit like a stake through the heart afterwards, though. They both knew that Geralt left tomorrow...The Witcher feared that that may be the next wound he leaves Jaskier with.

“Oh, I know that look,” Jaskier softly voiced. Geralt had no idea when the bard had stopped kissing him. He had been so lost. “You’re delving into yourself again. I still remember when you’d stare off like this. You go someplace dark,” he said as his head rested against Geralt’s. His hands rested on his shoulders and he held him close. “Talk to me, Geralt, please.”

Geralt’s hands ventured up and down the bard’s sides before they found purchase on his hips. ‘Focus. Feelings, not words,’ he reminded himself. This time, he found it more comfortable to not look into Jaskier’s eyes. 

“I fear, Julien,” he confesses. “That you’ll feel betrayed by this. That you’ll feel like this whole dance was just a trick for you to forgive me...I don’t want you to hurt again over me. I care for you, but I know what I’m like. And I know how this seems.” Geralt was giving him an out, a way to pull back and stop and realize that he might be hurt again. Geralt was genuine, but how could Jaskier know that?

Before he could wallow any further into his doubts, he felt arms pull him close, and his head connected with the bard’s chest. His heart was so steady and calming. Geralt couldn’t help but bring his own arms to hold the other close so he could feel the very beats against his skin. A hand played in his hair. Jaskier knew exactly how to sooth his racing mind, didn’t he?

“My Witcher,” he said, his voice muffled against his silver hair. “There is one thing, and one thing alone that made me forgive you. And it’s that you came back.” Geralt’s face twisted into that of confusion. He came back yes, but only after a decade had passed. He pulled back a bit and was met with a warm gaze void of any harsh emotion. “I know you took a while,” Jaskier said, as if he were reading Geralt’s mind. “But back then, I think if you had come after me, my stubborn young self probably would have made it worse.” 

Jaskier pulled his hands around and held the other’s face so he could keep his attention. “Geralt, there are so many things you could have done. You could have not come here, you could have asked for someone else to assist you, you could’ve even chosen not to speak or see me. But you, Geralt of Rivia,” he paused for a moment to brush back a strand of hair from Geralt’s chiselled face. “Are a man of choice. Destiny may have pulled some string to bring us together, but it was you who decided to come find me, to talk to me, to apologize. It was you, my dearest Witcher, that wanted to come back and get me. And that…” Jaskier placed a sweet and slow kiss against the other’s lips. “Is how I know you’re sincere.

Gods, Geralt really didn’t deserve this. Every part of his body felt like it was made of jelly, felt like he was falling apart at the seams because of Jaskier’s words. He had such a way with them, it made Geralt a bit envious. He couldn’t control the smile that spread across his face and the wetness in his eyes that started to creep down his cheeks. The bard swiftly moved to soothe them away, but that didn’t change the tinge of tension in his heart.

“Juli-”

“Call me Jaskier,” the other cut him off with a giggle. “I think you’ve reclaimed that right.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled under his breath, like it was still forbidden and he indulged in the decadent name. “I hope you know why I did all this.”  
“Because you missed me?” Jaskier cooed, like it was the obvious route to take.

“Because I love you,” Geralt stated flatly. It was fact, so why address it as anyway other than one? He watched his eyes blow wide and he felt his heartbeat skip. A smirk crept across his lips as he leaned forward to kiss at Jaskier’s neck, in an attempt to get the bard’s heart started again. He succeeded and was gifted with a quickened pace that thrummed against Geralt’s tongue.

“Say it again, I don't think I heard you,” Jaskier almost moaned as his neck was being ravaged.

“I love you, Jaskier,” the Witcher offered to him. 

"Yeah, okay, yeah, that's what I thought," the bard giggled. His hands pushed against the front of Geralt’s chest until his back was flush against the bed. Jaskier was pinning him down and smiling madly.

“And I love you, Geralt.” Those were the last words before his tongue swept the inside of Geralt’s mouth and everything the bard did made Geralt’s body react in a sultry way. Geralt had been looking forward to a night like tonight for decades, and he planned to make the most of it with the bard-no. Those weren’t the right words…

He planned to make the most of it with His bard.

The morning sun shone in harshly through the open balcony doors, warming the decorated room that was in disarray. Clothes were flung across the floor, as were some pillows and sheets, and everything had a tinge of chill to it. The spring air had wafted in through the night and settled deep into the bones of one particularly undressed bard. The sun had the audacity to run itself over his eyes and make him stir from his deep-as-death sleep. Jaskier couldn’t bear the thought of getting out of bed just yet, so his sore and aching muscles turned him over. 

He felt a large, carved pillar on this side, carved of stone and just about as cold as it too. Jaskier felt it breathe slowly, the figure not flinching when the bard’s wandering hands came up to rub against its sides. Jaskier felt calm hands starting to brush through his brown locks of hair, nails gently scraping against his scalp and sending a shiver through his system. His body was being tugged closer to the other, his head being guided into the crook of the familiar body’s neck.

“You’re warm,” Geralt hummed. Jaskier’s lips perked up into a smile against The Witcher’s skin, his rough beard scratching a bit. His skin was almost ice, except for a ghosted outline of wear Jaskier’s back had been against Geralt’s chest. Bearable enough to curl into. “And you’re late.”

The bard only half opened his eyes and looked up towards the snarky man in his arms. “I did not become a professor for someone of the likes of you to tell me I’m late to class,” Jaskier murmured before he sank back into the other’s embrace. He was elated to be treated with one of Geralt’s chuckles this early in the morning. “My morning class knows what to do if I’m not there. Very independent bunch, they are,” the bard rambled on a bit as he slowly started to come to full consciousness. He rolled over onto his back and finally sat up, pulling his shoulders up and thoroughly popping his back. 

Geralt rolled over onto his stomach and watched intently as the bard arose from the bed. His eyes trailed from each bite mark and bruise up and down his body, and he smirked to himself. He fixated on Jaskier’s face, how it was disguised by those light brown strands hanging in his eyes. The bard began to move about the room to collect last nights abandoned clothes and place them in a basket for washing. He picked up Geralt’s pitch tunic and pants and set them on the bed for him to collect. Geralt didn’t make much of an effort to rise from his position. 

Just as Jaskier opened the doors to his wardrobe to dress himself for the day, there was a knock at the door. And then the door opened.

“Sorry for barging, Julien, but have you seen Geralt? He wasn’t in bed and I’m worried that he’s gone off without-” Yennefer started asking the moment she started to walk in the room. As her eyes swept the room, they widened, being met with Geralt’s gaze and Jaskier’s unamused glance. Her cheeks went a deep red as she was faced by the two very undressed men.

“Now, I didn’t barge in on the two of you after you two had sex, so what gives you that right?” Jaskier accused in a flat tone. It forced Geralt to stifle a laugh, but the Witch didn’t find it very funny, it seemed. She just stood there and focused her glare on Geralt, her eyes filled with bewilderment and some concern. 

“Did you find hi-” Cirilla began before she was swiftly cut off by a yelp from Yennefer and the slamming of a door. Jaskier couldn’t help the sharp laugh that bellowed from his chest, and even Geralt couldn’t muffle his own snickering. Jaskier had little to no shame, but Geralt agreed that it might be best for his daughter to see him basking in this morning’s afterglow.

“Yes, I did, he and Julien are...Talking. Just...Go get your things rounded up,” Yennefer instructed the younger witcher. There were a few protests, but after them, Geralt heard Cirilla giggle and walk back down the hall from once she came. The sorceress huffed before she spoke through the door again. “And for you. Finish...whatever you two are doing. We need to get going, Geralt.” He heard her walk off, but he remained in bed.

He didn’t want to leave.

Geralt finally got up, against his deep wish to lay back down and fall into this mundane moment. This was a routine he wouldn’t mind finding himself working into his life, but to have it cut so short seemed like life was cheating him. He tugged on his pants, but only got half way through putting on his shirt before his eyes started to drift towards Jaskier. He was mostly clothed, devoid of his doublet and shoes, but he still looked disheveled and smelt of musky sex. He was fiddling with his hair, holding it back while he searched the bed and the surrounding floor for his hair tie. 

Geralt didn’t think twice about what he did next. He let his shirt drop to the floor before coming up behind the bard and tugging the hair into a small ponytail like the day before, and then tying it off with the black tie he kept around his wrist when he slept. Once the bards bangs were pulled out of his face, Geralt’s hands dropped and wrapped around his waist, his nose nuzzling into the nook of Jaskier’s neck.

“I nearly forgot you were leaving,” Jaskier admitted, his own hands intertwining themselves with his Witcher’s. He sounded melancholic. “To think, I just got you back.”

“Then come with me,” The Witcher offered as he kissed the back of his bard’s shoulder, nipping at where he knew a nasty bite mark had been. It could be like back then, but he would be better this time.

“You know I can’t. I can’t just pick up and leave my work,” The bard solemnly said, turning around in his arms to face Geralt head on. He stared deep into those molten gold eyes of his darling. There was hurt in them, but it was buried with confidence.

“Then I’ll come back. After we take care of this, I’ll come back. And we can pick up where we left off,” The Witcher growled as he brushed his lips over the bard’s jawline, teasing the poor thing. It forced a light giggle out of him, and it just made the kisses increase in ferocity. “Just a few weeks,” he softly promised.

Jaskier could feel himself be lifted off the ground, his toes just barely gracing the floor. “I can’t guarantee you’ll be seeing much of me,” he said between his giggles. “I have to start preparing my Seniors for the spring cotillion. And I know how much you oppose such events. I won’t put you through that agony.” Geralt pulled his head back and captured his bard’s gaze for a long moment. That sweet smile on his delicious lips, a smile that would follow Geralt to the end of his days. 

“The worst agony I’ve been through is being without you, Jas. There is no greater struggle that I’ve overcome,” Geralt said. Maybe he could find the best words after all, given he has the proper muse. Jaskier slammed their lips unceremoniously together, sharing a short and loving kiss with the other. He pulled back, and he held a look like he was expecting an exception, a retraction. What he said was more than true, but Gods did his bard know him. “As long as we don’t stay too late. You have me for an hour after your performance.”

“Deal,” Jaskier stated, looking very satisfied with the compromise. “I’d doubt I'd want to stay that long anyway, knowing you’re by my side,” he purred low into Geralt’s space. The Witcher put the other back down, his hands coming to cradle Jaskier’s cheeks. He held him there for a long moment, a slow one where Geralt just stared into those cerulean eyes that could rival the sky and ocean in their wonder and enchantment. From this day, Geralt vowed to not take them for granted.

“I’m coming back,” he promised. He promised to both of them.

“I know,” Jaskier hummed. “I always knew.”

This was a start. A good start. For the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thats IT! It's Over! I said it'd be short. And it was! I said it'd be sweet. And I think it was! The boys are TALKING and it is wonderful. This, i think, will be one of my favorite short fics that i've written for a long while. I love my boys! I loved writing this!
> 
> Alright. Time to write Chapter 10 of OTNM. *cracks knuckles* Back to making Geralt suffer.

**Author's Note:**

> AH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! Holy Shit, i love making these boys hurt for each other. Geralt having an Anxiety attack is a good thing to write I think.
> 
> This won't be a big fic, just a little romp. Like, 3-4 parts max. Just wanted to write Silver-Fox Professor Jaskier and I JUST NEED GERALT TO SAY SORRY, THE BITCH. This is just gonna be an Angst fest so prepare your hearts.


End file.
